Page 28 of The Fake Affair

The first thing that catches my eye is the vintage vanity mirror I'd been eyeing online just days ago. The one I'd liked on Instagram thinking I'd save up for it someday. It's positioned perfectly to catch the natural light, exactly how I'd imagined it. How did Logan find out about this? Not even Audrey knows.

There's a reading nook by the window, inspired by that renovation show I can't stop watching. Complete with a cushioned window seat and built-in bookshelf. A small desk faces the city view, perfect for the work-from-home days I'd negotiated.

My hand trails along the bookshelf, noting how the books are arranged exactly like mine at home—fiction by genre, non-fiction by subject.

The closet is bigger than my old bedroom, with a center island for accessories and enough shoe storage for my not-so-impressive shoe collection.

In the en-suite bathroom, I find my favorite products already stocked. Even my specific brand of face wash that’s hard to find in Manhattan. How did he...? Right. Audrey. Or maybe he’s just been paying more attention than I realized.

I sink onto the bed, overwhelmed. This isn't just a room; it's a message. One I'm not sure I'm ready to decode.

I try to distract myself by unpacking, but each box only reminds me of yesterday—Logan insisting on helping pack despite hiring movers, the way his hands lingered when passing me items to wrap, how his accent got softer when he found the Shakespeare collection in my bookshelf.

"You still have this?" he'd asked, holding up my worn copy.

I'd shrugged, trying to seem casual. "Required reading."

But we both knew it wasn't. It was the play I'd quoted at his expense that first time we met. I didn't tell him I'd bought the complete works the next day or that I'd learned his favorite sonnets just to have ammunition for our next encounter.

Now, arranging those same books in my new room—our Edinburgh story might be fake, but at least my knowledge of Scottish literature isn't.

My phone buzzes with texts from my friends, asking about my sudden move. I've been avoiding their calls, unsure how to explain this situation.

How do you tell people you're fake-dating your boss because his board of directors is obsessed with his personal life? That you're living with the man who's been starring in your fantasies since that first eye roll?

By midnight, the reality of my situation fully hits me. I'm living with Logan Fraser. The man I've spent years pretending not to notice. I’m still too wired to sleep.

The events of the past week keep playing in my head. I end up in the kitchen, pulling out ingredients for chocolate chip cookies.

Baking chocolate chip cookies has always been my stress relief, and right now, I need relief.

I don’t bother changing out of my sleep shorts and tank top. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m alone. I turn on some music, keeping it low, and fall into the comforting pattern of measuring and mixing.

The first batch is in the oven when I hear it: a sharp intake of breath from the doorway.

I turn, finger in my mouth, licking off chocolate from a failed cookie-dough experiment.

Logan stands there in low-hanging sleep pants and nothing else, his hair mussed from sleep, looking at me like I'm the sweetest thing in his kitchen.

"I didn't know you were back," I manage, suddenly aware that this is what living together means—him appearing at random hours, fresh from business trips, looking like this.

"Got in a while ago," his accent is rough with sleep and travel. "I was trying to get some rest."

Oh.

This might be a problem.

I’m suddenly aware of how little I’m wearing. My sleep shorts barely cover anything, and my tank top is riding up, showing a strip of skin above my waistband.

“Couldn’t sleep?” His accent is thick, making the simple question sound like sin.

“I stress bake.” I turn back to the counter, trying to look busy. “Did I wake you?”

“The smell of chocolate woke me.” He moves closer. “What are you making?”

“Chocolate chip cookies.” I reach for another chocolate chip, but his hand catches mine.

“You’ve got...” He brings my chocolate-stained finger to his mouth, and my breath catches as his lips close around it.

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